The Flame
by Halcyon Seraphim
Summary: AU, Set during WWII. Wounded and bleeding in his office, Colonel Roy Mustang encounters a most unexpected visitor. Royai.


**The Flame**

Subliminal Messages (Or…not): Yes, this is a lemon. Yes, it is from JK/Duelist of the Sands/Halcyon Seraphim, or whatever name you know me by, assuming you know me. Yes. There is smex. If het smex between Roy and Riza bothers you, do not pass this point. If AU and possibly OOC Riza and Roy bothers you, do not pass this point.

If it does not…nance on ahead, I will be very happy.

Right. This is both my first FMA fanfic and my first lemon. …;.; Be gentle.

Disclaimer: I do not own FMA, the characters in FMA, or the Arakawa cows. Curses.

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Colonel Roy Mustang had gained his fair share of notoriety. They whispered about him—how he had torn asunder as many virginal hearts as the war had torn apart bodies, how his endeavors among the ladies were second only to his thirst for advancement in the military. Every secretary and nurse with ties to the state had undoubtedly been warned of the ladies' man few could match in terms of female attainments and, most especially, charm. Yes…Roy liked to think he'd mastered the paradoxical nature of women, liked to think he could tame the internal fire of any being of the opposite sex.

He often liked to set a mark for himself…select a woman he felt would be particularly difficult to bend to his whims. A challenge, if you would. Roy adored challenges.

And in 1944, upon his relocation to a new post, he encountered his most elusive victim yet—Riza Hawkeye, the most skilled and most stolid nurse on staff in the area. Roy remembered pondering whether the woman had aristocratic blood in her—she epitomized dignity and authority, and carried herself as though she were one with inestimable power. As the most skilled in her field, of course, Roy had come to realize that the other nurses regarded her with a muted but awed respect.

And if she _was _well-born, well, all the better for Roy's inflated status as a relentless ladies' man.

He could recall when they first met—the clearest of images in his phantasmagoria of memories. He'd suffered a minor wound and strolled casually into the nurses' booth, grinning amusedly as they all turned away nervously—having been, of course, warned to evade Colonel Mustang at any cost if they wanted to retain more than tattered hearts.

Riza's response to his presence, however, put her fellow nurses to shame. She neared him, looked directly into his eyes, sat him down, and demanded to know what afflicted him. And her eyes simply captivated him. They were fairly unusual eyes, reddish-brown, possessing a glaze the color of blood and a stare with the stoked fire to go with them. Fire and blood…yes, they were the eyes of war.

And he remembered feeling disgruntled each time they were _not _on him, each time she tended to his wounds as though he were an inanimate object with a crack of some sort. Always indifferent, always professional…and never affected by him.

Those eyes drove him mad, as did the woman who possessed them, for she brimmed with far more heat than her eyes could muster. Roy often had the impression of being burned when touching her, accidentally or not.

He was desperate. He flirted ceaselessly, courting her with words and gifts while receiving shoves and snippy remarks in return for his efforts. She was exasperated when he entered a room, absolutely furious every time she extracted a bullet or a shard of glass from his body. If nothing else, Roy liked to think he drove her almost as insane as she did him.

He'd visited her on numerous occasions, yielding nothing but a migraine. Months passed, and Roy found himself surrendering to this imperial woman. Perhaps he had _finally _discovered a being he could not have. But before the war saw its termination, he was determined to attempt one last effort, determined to be perhaps the first to crack that layer of scalding ice she donned.

And so he was rather stunned when, on the night of last battle he would see, she chose to come to _him._

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"So this is what you've come to, Roy," he murmured sardonically, "clinging to a bleeding wound in your ransacked office, alone and an inch from death." He chuckled bitterly. "Pathetic, Mustang. Absolutely pathetic." His normally infallible vision blurred before him in lieu of a recent onslaught of heat and pain, and not even the cool, black leather of his armchair could offer him any reprieve. "Dammit…" He looked desperately round the darkened room, seeking something within arm's reach to clean the wound, but it was to no avail. Even his whiskey was beyond the region he could access, sitting behind his bookshelf, waiting for its persistent daily withdrawal.

His senses perked up as he heard the door being opened and then shut, the latch twisted so that the room was now locked. He hadn't the energy to rise and glance at who'd entered, but the presence exuded no air of friendliness.

"Come to finish me off?" he challenged weakly.

Silence.

The figure came to stand in front of his desk, appearing to examine him closely, peering at his body from various angles.

"Can you stand, or do I have to carry you onto the couch?" came a female voice. Roy blinked.

"…who are you?"

"Do you presume to tell me that you've gone and gotten yourself _blinded_, you half-assed nitwit with a god complex?"

"Can't mistake that voice. Hawkeye, what are you—"

"I heard that you were injured and I came here."

"You should've gone to a bomb shelter…"

"And left you to die?"

"I didn't know you cared, Riza," he remarked drably. Silence, once again. Roy wondered, hazily, if he was losing his voice, and Riza could no longer hear him.

"_Can_ you stand?" she proposed after a moment.

He smiled slightly. "Not for long."

Wordlessly, she came behind the mahogany desk and heaved him out of the chair, supporting most of his weight as she led him over to the couch and deposited him on top of it.

"Sit up, Mustang," she commanded. Inebriate of the scent of his own blood, Roy obeyed her every word, using the armrest for support. Riza, meanwhile, produced an almost-depleted roll of bandages and eyed it disdainfully. "I don't know if this will be enough…" She kneeled in front of him, threading her fingers through the torn, blood-stained fabric of his shirt before ripping the obtrusive cloth off completely. She made a disapproving noise Roy couldn't categorize and questioned, placidly, "Do you have alcohol stashed somewhere in your office?"

He motioned towards the shelf. "I have about half a bottle of whiskey behind the thesaurus."

"Half a bottle?" Riza bit her lip. "It won't be enough."

"Am I in such bad shape?"

"I'll have to conserve as much as I can…" she whispered to herself. Roy shook his head at her complete detour around his question. Riza, for her own part, rose and fetched the whiskey, finding it easily enough, and bent over Roy's torn form to dribble a small amount onto the wounds. Roy flinched. "Stop moving, Roy," she snapped imperatively, dabbing at it with some gauze, concentrating on removing the caked blood and dirt from around the bullets. She extricated a pair of tweezers from her pocket and used them to gain a firm hold around the bullet in his abdomen, tugging on it lightly to attempt to extract it. Roy's hand clung to the armrest, sweaty skin sliding off the smooth leather.

Riza's voice was nonchalant as always. "Hold my hand if you must, but stop sliding from the edge of the seat. You're interfering with my work." Gratefully, he clung to her hand, entwining their fingers and proceeding to crush it in his iron grasp. Riza betrayed no evidence of pain at his touch, pulling her hand away only when she stooped to rip a portion of her skirt to use as a makeshift bandage. Wrapping it tightly with both the dark blue fabric of her clothing and the remaining gossamer material of the bandages, she removed the tweezers from their resting place and began cleaning them in her lap, working at a quick, steady pace in order to repeat the process with the rest of the gunshot lacerations.

She found she could not, however, manage to ease his pain. Pressing a hand to his forehead, she declared, "You have a fever. Does it still hurt?" Roy fancied he heard concern in her voice.

"Only a little."

"Stop trying to be a martyr," she spat. "Both with me, and in the heat of battle. Who in the name of hell is going to benefit from your promotions if you're _dead_! Is it your name that you're worried about! You want to be recorded in history? Find some other means by which to accomplish it, but stop…stop…" Her voice trailed off, as did the vehemence. "Stop trying to get yourself killed, Roy…"

Knowing he would be rewarded with the usual, affronted slap, Roy placed a hand on her cheek, tracing the pale skin with his fingers. He realized, rather belatedly, that there was a moistness under his fingertips.

"Riza, have you been…" Did he dare ask? "…crying?" She shook her head fervently. "Now is not the opportune moment for lies, Riza…" Her shoulders sagged, shaking slightly with repressed sobs, and Roy found himself taken aback. "Don't cry about it! I'm fine! Well, granted, I've been better, and this hurts a little like hell, but I should be fine by tomorrow." He paused when Riza moved from his side, coming to rest on her knees before him.

"I don't have medicine to lessen the ache, and I'm no miracle worker. But at least let me take your mind off it," she proposed. Roy blinked, absorbing her words.

"All right. How?" he ventured.

Without responding, Riza forced his legs apart and reached upward, threading his belt out and thereafter beginning to unclasp the first few buttons of his pants.

"Riza, what are—"

"Let me do this, Roy!" she implored him, glancing up at Roy and staring at him with those wine-colored eyes he'd admired not too long ago. She averted her line of vision, burying her face in his knee. "Let me…ease your suffering…" she entreated. Roy forced her head up.

"I don't need your pity, Hawkeye. This may be the worst you've seen me, but that is not an adequate reason to demand entry into my—"

"I have a perfectly sufficient reason!"

"What is it, then?"

"I hate seeing you writhing in agony, Roy! Every time I pry six bullets from your body, it's as though _I've _been shot!"  
"You see soldiers dying daily. Why differentiate between my pain and theirs?"

"Because I love you, you idiot!"

After the barest of hesitations, Roy took Riza's arm and drew her to him, crushing his lips into hers. His tongue flickered against her lips, demanding entry, which she almost immediately provided. They broke apart, both panting heavily, as Riza snaked an arm towards the buttons she'd previously been undoing, completing her handiwork.

"May I?" she asked quietly, tentatively. Roy inclined his head.

Descending between his legs, Riza yanked on his trousers, pulling them down to expose his growing erection. Leaning over, she took the length into her mouth and began sucking lightly, pausing every now and then to steady herself against the base of the divan.

Roy clung to the cushion of the settee with clammy palms, acknowledging that this was the first time he'd ever struggled _so damn hard _not to buck his hips. _How could a complete amateur be so…so good?_ He wondered incoherently. Involuntarily, his hand rose to rest on her hair, gripping blond tufts of it between his fingers as her licks grew more frequent, more insistent. He charted it to being a part of her profession, but the absolute _accuracy _with which she performed this task was infuriating. Her gentle assault, the manner in which she administered strokes on the sides and the tip, was a blitzkrieg so destructive it put the Germans to shame. (A/N: SHOT FOR WRITING THIS WHILE DOING GLOBAL HOMEWORK) He felt his climax drawing near, and welcomed its advent at that. His body craved—needed—release. And when his body felt just about ready to explode, he felt the intromission of cold, outside air, and greeted it with a grunt of disapproval.

Riza had stood up. "I…think that's enough," she observed, quietly. Roy heaved a sigh, putting his pants back on and cursing his own stupidity. He should have realized that, in Riza Hawkeye's mind, what had transpired was the basest, the most crude of human interactions. He should have paused for some introspection into _her _mind, into _her _desires.

Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Riza seated herself beside Roy on the black leather, pressing her lips to his forehead. The action, though of an almost motherly ilk, was contact and touch enough to cause Roy's blood to boil with arousal and urgency.

"Your fever's risen. I should've known better." Forced apathy. Roy ran his fingers through his cobalt hair, loosening the sweaty strands.

"I was distracted—I'll give you that."

"But I've made it worse…"

"It's not as though I objected, Riza."

"But I'm a nurse. I—"

"If you were going to voice regrets after the deed, you shouldn't have done it!" Roy snapped, unable to conceive of any reason for his sudden aggression. "All right, I understand. You're disgusted. I took advantage of you. Fine."

Riza's face made the transition from coy surprise to a devious kind of sultriness. "Colonel, sir…" she said, a calculating smirk playing upon her lips, "I do believe it was _I _who took advantage of _you_."

Roy's visage eased into something impassive, and then something amused. "At…any rate, is there any way for you to reduce my fever?" Riza reflected for a moment.

"We can try things the old-fashioned way, although I'm reluctant. Sweating out a fever is not exactly a modernly practiced or praised medical technique, but as you have no medicine in this dusty little hovel of an office of yours…" She cast a tired glance around the room, perhaps making one last, fruitless sweep of the room. Roy watched her sigh, her chest heaving a little, her eyes closed briefly in contemplation. "Well, do you have blankets?" She had turned her head, and as always with the direct gaze of those blood-stained eyes, he could not avert his own dark orbs. He watched her, overcome with a fervent want, whose attainment his body commanded and whose fulfillment his brain adamantly denied him. He yearned to have her beneath him, to clutch her trembling body against his. He _desired _her, irrationally. An utterly absurd thought even presented itself in the far recesses of his mind: that he would sacrifice every previous and future conquest he'd ever had or intended to have if only for this one night of ardor—of ephemeral flame—in the arms of Riza Hawkeye. The room was stifling, as he knew it would have been even if his frame wasn't being despoiled by a dangerously high rise in body heat.

"No, no blankets," he replied finally, after Riza had been peering at him with what he could genuinely identify as alarm. He hesitated, and then added, when all traces of reluctance ebbed away, "Although I do believe I know a completely different manner in which I could 'sweat it off,' so to speak, if you are willing to allow me to try…"

Riza looked intrigued, and fostered a slight smile. "I don't see why not, Colonel."

Relieved at this concession, Roy meticulously took her left hand into his right, lacing their fingers as tightly as he had done earlier, and raised her arm above her head, forcing her gently onto her back, pinning both their arms against the cool armrest. He shifted, maneuvering so that he could lean over her, and placed an experimental kiss on her lips. Riza herself seemed dissatisfied with the chastity of it all, slipping an arm behind his back and tugging him closer, deepening the kiss. Roy understood, as their tongues tangled and disentangled, that while he'd set out for a flame, he would be receiving an inferno.

…not that he would _oppose _this transmutation of fervor, he silently observed as he fully transferred his weight, straddling her hips. He dipped to trail kisses along her jaw line and down her neck, pausing at gently-throbbing pulse point near the surface of the slender skin. His tongue darted out to administer a timid lick and—pleased with the her reaction, the way her lips parted to eject a poorly stifled gasp—he enclosed his lips around it and sucked, enjoying the additional moans and gasps he managed to educe from the flushed blond beneath him. Eventually, he grew bored with her neck and tongued his way down to her collarbone, the last frontier of skin he could taste before clothing interceded.

"Oh no…" he muttered, as Riza lifted her head off of the cushioned armrest in a desperate curiosity, wondering why he had ceased his ministrations, "…this simply will not do, this troublesome blouse of yours." He thumbed the collar of the dark blue fabric almost disdainfully, before proceeding to run his hand over it, undoing the buttons one by one with a maddening fastidiousness. Once he had successfully unclasped all of the buttons and opened the shirt, Riza lifted herself to shrug the cumbersome garment off.

Roy lingered for a minute, examining the strikingly beautiful creature before him. He had dreamt of this moment, but somehow, the utmost trust Riza had suddenly placed in him was startling. His hesitance wove itself into a tapestry of doubt and he found that he could not go on. He maneuvered off her, shifting so that he was sitting on the very edge of the couch. He felt…dirtied, somehow, and by his own thoughts at that. He would not be the one to pilfer her innocence, he declared to himself.

Riza, however, had risen with him, and placed her arms around his chest, embracing him from behind and nuzzling her face in his neck.

"Roy." Her voice was a whisper, desperate, authoritative, and sensual in one breath. She leaned up, grazing his earlobe with her teeth as she continued to whisper into it. He shivered. "Stop hesitating. You and I both want this. We both _need _this."

Why _was _he hesitating? Perhaps it was the ongoing assault on their parapet, a soldier's sense of evasion of any and all distractions during a battle, whether he was involved or not. Or perhaps it was for her sake…perhaps he felt that she had no true perception of what she wanted. Perhaps he did not want to see that trust sundered.

But these final tendrils of doubt were incinerated as Riza kissed his cheek repeatedly, whispering, "Please," between kisses, each successive plea more importunate. She resumed her position on the couch, beckoning him to her. Roy hearkened to her demands, allowing her to remove his remaining articles of clothing as he unzipped her skirt and did likewise. He laid an exploratory hand on her breast, brushing the nipple and enjoying Riza's recommenced cries of his name. He soon replaced his hand with his mouth, demonstrating rather pertinently that his skills in this particular area of expertise were not to be rivaled by hers. Riza threaded her hands his hair, pulling him closer to her chest, unwilling to allow him to deter from his current task for even an instant. Her breath was ragged when he finally stopped, and was caught in her throat when he worked his way down to her navel, dipping his tongue into it before trailing it even lower down her abdomen. He ceased before arriving where Riza really wanted him, reaching up to kiss her again.

Roy was satisfied with how all semblance of discomfort had faded—how he had managed to resume his role as a ladies' man with such ease after having been deterred for so long. He reveled in her gasps, and especially in how her newfound shortness of breath was his doing. And Roy was ready to conclude the affair, to enter her and feel her contract around him. Riza, however, had something heinously notorious planned; Roy realized this when she denied him entry, placing a graceful hand on his chest and forcing him back.

"No, not yet…" she whispered faintly.

"Why the hell not?" Roy breathed huskily.

"And here I thought you were impatient in battle alone," she said slyly. "_Because_…" she whispered, brushing sweaty strands of hair from his forehead, before lifting herself up to whisper into his ear, "…I want to know your body. I want to feel you under my fingertips first…" And Roy, for the first time in a bedroom setting since his own original, primordial tussle with a woman, found his cheeks acquiring a faint, pink tinge. God, the emotions this woman elicited from him…

"All right, but if that's the case, then I want a fair trade," he demanded.

Riza grinned mischievously. "Fear not, Colonel Mustang. You shall surely receive it." Amused, Roy relaxed on top of her and waited. Riza ran a finger down his chest, ultimately reaching his abdomen, where the cloth of the bandage served as the only thing that separated their skin. She brought her hand up again and traced the nail of her index finger down his back. Roy shivered, before following suit, running his hands up and down her silken body.

The feather-light touches continued—Riza ceaselessly stroked his body as Roy did likewise, until he began to notice her preoccupation with the profuse amount of scars war had etched onto his young frame. And while he was certain that any other woman would find them rather sexy, Roy feared that this would be the best illumination of their stations, the most fitting reminder of how the engagement they had commenced was a kind of fraternization. Riza Hawkeye was a woman with morals, a woman who clung to military regulations as steadfastly as the fallen cling to the Holy Scriptures before entrance into perdition.

"So many scars…" she muttered as she fingered the hardened tissue. "You're as reckless as they say." Evidently finished exploring his body with her digits, she began placing butterfly kisses down the length of the remnants of a wound on his shoulder—a particularly repulsive scar that extended to his neck, as did her attention.

"My scars…they don't…" he murmured plaintively.

"What about them?"

"Are you bothered by them?"

"A little." Undoubtedly noticing how his expression had sagged a little, she touched his cheek. "But not for the reason you think. I'm not that shallow, Roy. You should have realized that by now."

"Then why?"

"I'm not bothered by the scars themselves. I'm bothered by what they represent. The men that gave them to you, the battles in which you received them…I understand that you want to climb the ranks as quickly as possible, but is your goal truly worth this much carnage? You'll have plenty of medals to adorn your uniform with, but your mind will be decorated in a different manner."

Roy was flattered by this sudden show of care for his welfare, and despite how he enjoyed it, he wanted it banished for two reasons: firstly, because she was worrying and he couldn't bear to see it, and secondly, because they had both been naked for the past ten minutes or so and nothing had _happened _yet. "Don't fret, Riza," he requested.

"Come now. Don't you want to live long enough to have another woman in your arms? You've managed to secure _this _conquest. It'll be time to move on shortly."

Roy looked away from her, aware of how he could no longer feel her palm's presence on his cheek, as her hand had fallen to her side. Her words were certainly true; Roy rarely maintained a relationship for more than one night—any woman he attempted to entice always lost her appeal after he'd attained her. But strangely enough, the prospect of ever releasing Riza from his arms was not one he looked forward to, and its advent was even one that he dreaded.

And as he shook his head to clear his turbulent notions, he was met with a stunning realization…

…he loved her.

He had struggled with the concept, but he realized that, inevitably, his raison d'être for what had transpired between them was not simply his desire to obtain another trophy or to add another head to his impressive count. For this one glorious night, she was his. But this night would not be enough to sate him.

"No," he declared, quietly.

"No? Oh, I assure you, you've finally managed to—" She was cut off as Roy took her hand in his, bringing her fingers to his mouth and kissing her frozen fingertips, sucking on them slightly.

"I don't intend to treat you as a harlot," he said breathlessly once he had finished.

"And why? How am I different from any other woman you've slept with?"

Roy eyed her, mocking an expression of chagrin. "Why, Riza Hawkeye, haven't you realized it yet?"

"Realized what?"

"That I love you." He voiced the words with confidence, and Riza gazed at him for several long moments, not uttering a word. And he gazed back. Both uttered nothing, hardly daring to breathe, completely enraptured with one another.

And it was Roy that broke the stillness, daring to touch her lips tentatively. And Riza raised her head, inviting him to proceed, to do more than simply brush her lower lip with his thumb. And he obliged, threading his hand under her head to allow him proper leverage. The kiss was innocent at first, no more substantial than the brushing of moth wings against the surface from which it lifts off. But Riza pulled him down on top of her, assaulting his mouth with all the passion and hunger she had obviously been denying herself till then. Roy sucked on her bottom lip, claiming the orifice for his own, gripping both of her hands in his with bone-shattering force.

It was madness, insanity. Their kissing escalated into something almost violent, with either trying to consume as much of the other as was possible, until they rolled off the couch altogether, landing splayed on the carpeted floor of the office. Some thought processes were restored in Roy's brain when he realized that his bare back was being brushed by the coarse fibers of the carpet. This indicated that _somehow_, he had ended up below this woman, and while his protests were little, he honestly doubted her capability—and he had promised them both, without words, that nothing would blight this evening. He manipulated their bodies so that he was on top of her, never once breaking their kiss.

Finally, they tore apart, gasping for air. Roy rocked his hips against her, near her entrance but not inside her yet. Riza moaned.

"Do it," she gasped out.

Roy smirked, and whispered breathlessly, "I can't contravene a doctor's orders, now can I?" Placing his hands on her thighs, he forced her legs apart and thrust inside her. Riza winced, feeling the ache of initial penetration. Roy was amused by the irony—the task of taking someone else's mind off pain had now fallen to him.

And he did. Pinning her shoulders down, he moved inside her as she wrapped her legs around him, anchoring him in place. She rose to meet his every movement, her gasps and moans now completely unreserved, her nails leaving a bloody trail on Roy's skin as she alternated between clinging to him and scraping his back. Every so often their mouths met and exchanged wet embraces as Roy ground into her, harder and faster with each thrust.

"Roy…" she gasped. Roy's motions slowed, but he did not extricate himself from her. "Don't—"

He placed his index finger on her lips, quieting her.

"This is _my_ area of expertise," he whispered roughly. "And you must learn patience." Riza mustered a smile—one that Roy soon claimed with his lips, resuming his former attentions. His perception of time was skewed, but he knew that the remainder of their lovemaking could not have lasted more than a minute. He climaxed, bursting inside her as the world around him erupted in a resplendent white.

All while zeppelins deposited bombs and dispensed death around them, he mused. He rolled off of her, breathing heavily, as she moved closer, nestling herself against his chest. He brushed his lips across her forehead, kissing it gently. The carpet was soaked with blood and other fluids, but neither was bothered enough to do something about it. Dimly, they both heard the distant din of gunfire, accompanied by the glorious blare of an explosion. Ash and shrapnel rained in torrents against the roof, but the two were hopelessly lethargic as they clutched one another. For they, two enamored fools who had known naught but war and devastation, had discovered and obtained a mimesis of perfection in a pit of Hell.


End file.
